


Semper te amabo

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fix-It, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: An authorized continuation of InnerSpectrum's ficI Want Him Back!Thank you, dear friend, for letting me play with your lovely fic.  Because my muse insisted that your muse was wrong, when told this one was a one-shot fic.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InnerSpectrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/gifts).



> Fair warning - mind the tags. I will add/update as I go along.

  
  


Sherlock stared blankly at Greg. More specifically, at the tattoo on Greg’s left forearm. The wording was identical to the picture, but the font… the handwriting… that was different. Recognition dawned on Sherlock’s face.

“Your _husband_ ,” he said slowly, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “You and my brother…”

John looked at Sherlock. “Wait, what?”

“The handwriting on Lestrade’s arm. That is Mycroft’s handwriting.”

“Are you sure?”  
  
“Of course I’m sure, John. I’ve had a lot of practice duplicating it, after all.” A shimmer of a pride crossed his face, gone as quickly as it appeared.

“It appears Lestrade is the target, rather than Mycroft. That was the piece I was missing.” Sherlock got to his feet, pacing. The buzz in the room fell silent.

“He is being used as leverage against you.” He waved toward the labelled photo in John’s hand. “Who knew? The Register Office personnel, the tattoo artist…” Sherlock continued pacing, coming to a sudden stop. “Even Mycroft couldn’t circumvent the process. Anyone you spoke to in the last 30 days could know,” he snapped.

“I swear, I didn’t say a word. I told Sally I was going out of town for a few days, but not why,” Greg snapped back. “I wouldn’t know who Myc might have told. Hell, he didn’t even tell you…” Looking defeated, he walked quietly over to the sofa and sat down. 

John sat quietly beside Greg, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock, I think this just became a joint case – Scotland Yard needs to be involved.” Greg’s eyes lit up hopefully. “But not you, Greg. You’re too close, not to mention a likely target.”

“Yeah, you’re right, mate. Maybe Mycroft’s people should have a look around my flat before I go back. Maybe it’s bugged or something…” he grumbled. “But I’ve got to do something.”

“And you shall,” Sherlock replied, almost cheerful. “You are going back to work tomorrow, as though nothing has happened. Sgt Donovan will be involved with this case, but you will not. At least, not directly,” he nodded. “If the culprit is connected to Scotland Yard, they need to think they made a mistake – that you are not bothered by my brother’s kidnapping.”

“It wasn’t one of my people, Sherlock,” Greg replied with grim determination. “And I can’t just pretend nothing’s happened. I just… I just can’t.”

“When and where did you receive this photograph?” Sherlock took the picture from John, examining it more closely.

“The envelope was on my desk this morning. No idea when it got there, though.”

“When did you last see him?” John asked.

“Yesterday morning. He stayed at mine the night before. First time he’d ever done that…” John could almost hear Greg’s heart breaking. “He texted me last night – said he had a late meeting, and a full schedule today, so he’d meet me here for dinner with you two.”

Sherlock’s attention returned to the wall of photographs. “So he could have been missing as long as,” he glanced at his watch, “32 hours, approximately.”

“Correction. 23 hours.” Anthea’s cool voice broke the silence as she strode into the room. “He did not return to the office after his weekly meeting with Ellen McCurdy yesterday. His driver, James – who has been thoroughly questioned, I assure you – dropped him at his flat at 4:17pm.”

All eyes turned to the petite brunette, her eyes flashing. “I received a message from him at 6:42 this morning, stating that he had an unplanned engagement and would be out of contact.” She walked over to one of the operatives, who quickly relinquished his seat in front of the computer for her. A few clicks later, she spoke again. “However, I can confirm that his phone has been off-grid since shortly after midnight. The message you received last night, Detective Inspector, might have been from him, but the message I received this morning most certainly was not.”

Sherlock walked around behind Anthea, looking over her shoulder at the computer screen as she brought up the CCTV feed from near Mycroft’s flat. 

Anthea started the feed at the 4:15pm mark, and true to her statement, two minutes later, Mycroft’s car appeared and the rear door opened, his tall form stepping out and going directly to the door of his flat. He entered alone, closing the door behind him.

Playback speed was increased as they watched cars drive by and pedestrians walk past (one with a small black dog which Sherlock remembered Mycroft complaining about). Sherlock held his tongue, about to make a remark about how boring this was, when there was a flicker. “Stop! Back up!” he snapped.

Anthea glared at him but complied. The time stamp read 8:25pm. On the small screen, they watched as Mycroft – dressed in what appeared to be jeans and a dark jacket – stepped out the door. He looked around somewhat cautiously, Sherlock noted, before closing the door behind him, and striding down the street.

“Follow him!” Sherlock practically shouted. John came up behind him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him away.

“Sherlock, she knows what to do. Stop annoying her… and the rest of us,” he glanced over to Greg, who was still sitting on the sofa, staring blankly, rubbing at the tattoo on his arm softly. 

Anthea continued to watch the video feed, switching cameras as needed until Mycroft disappeared. “I’ve lost him,” she grumbled.

“He knows where the cameras are. He could avoid them, if he so chose,” Sherlock said quietly. “He would only choose to do so if he was instructed to do so.”

Greg looked up. “Who would do that?”

“That, Lestrade, is a question we need you to help us answer,” Sherlock replied, walking over and sitting on the coffee table in front of the Detective Inspector.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been busy, with Christmas coming and all, so here's a tiny bit to keep you going. More is in the works, trust me!

Sherlock’s tone was uncharacteristically gentle. “Think over the cases you’ve had in the past, say, six months. Probably someone convicted based on your evidence,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“But if they were convicted,” John started to ask, stopping as the answer to his own question dawned. “Right… they still have family, friends, associates… someone who is not serving at her Majesty’s pleasure…”  
  
“Exactly,” Sherlock jumped to his feet and resumed pacing. “Now, if it is a family member or close friend, I would anticipate a ransom demand. An associate is more likely to do something to exact vengeance on you.”

“What do you mean, ‘vengeance’?” Greg’s voice was quiet.

John gave Sherlock a stern look. He took John’s cue and responded gently, “I think you know what I mean, Greg.”

Greg shook his head and sighed. “They want to hurt me. And they’ve taken Mycroft to do it.” 

“We’ll find him, mate,” John gripped his shoulder reassuringly.

Sherlock stopped mid-step. “So, we have to wait. But that does not mean we have to be idle.” He looked up at Anthea, who had been busy. “Any progress?”

She frowned. “No. Mycroft is good at becoming invisible when needed,” she grumbled. “His phone is out of commission, so no tracking there. No financial transactions. All we have is surveillance video right up until he vanishes.”

“Show me.”

She backed up the feed to the beginning, when Mycroft stepped out his front door. 

Sherlock moved in close beside her, watching as Mycroft walked the streets in the darkness. Periodically, he would stop, check his watch, continue walking. “He’s inordinately concerned with the time, it seems. And the cameras,” he said quietly. Anthea nodded in agreement.

“That’s it. The cameras.”

“What?”

“Look at him, each time he looks at the cameras.”

John and Greg crowded in to watch the screen. “He’s talking to them?” John asked.

“Probably not aloud. Just enough to be visible – be read – by someone.” A grin turned the corner of Sherlock’s lips.

“Let me see,” Greg moved in closer. Anthea queued up each instance where Mycroft stopped.

Those soft grey eyes seemed to be looking right into Greg’s soul every time Mycroft looked at the camera. He pushed that aside, focusing instead on the words formed by his husband’s lips.

“What the hell is he saying?” came Sherlock’s annoyed voice. “I excel at lip-reading, but I can’t make out a single word!”

“Because it’s not English, you git,” Greg mumbled, his eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s French.”

“French? Why on earth would he do that?”

“He knows _I_ can lip-read French,” Greg looked up from the video. “And he knows you can’t. He wants my help.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well?” he asked expectantly.

“Anthea, have your people been to his flat?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did they go through his desk? ‘Tiroir supérieur droit du bureau.’ If it’s not his office desk – which I assume you’ve got full access to – then it’s the desk in his study.” Greg rapidly stood up and grabbed his coat.

He strode toward the door. “You coming, Sherlock?” he called over his shoulder as he headed down the stairs, Anthea close on his heels.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look, then in one motion grabbed their own coats and followed.


	3. Chapter 3

  


Mycroft Holmes had been in the office only briefly in the morning – just long enough to check his e-mail and gather the files he needed – before beginning his day of back-to-back meetings through lunch. 

“How was your meeting with the National Audit Office, sir?” Anthea looked up as her boss walked in after lunch. 

“Tiresome, as one would expect,” came the quiet reply as he walked into his office. He was immediately struck by the heavy scent of roses. On the side table stood two dozen red roses in a beautiful crystalline vase, with a card set beside them. Just as he picked up the card, Anthea appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea. “They were delivered just after you left for your meeting this morning. I took the liberty of putting them into your office for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, a slight smile playing on his lips. _Ever the romantic_ , he thought. _And now,_ my _romantic._

On the outside of the card, written in a lovely feminine hand (likely that of the florist), was his name.

_Mycroft Holmes_

He was about to break the envelope’s seal when a shrill voice reached his ears. 

“MYCROFT HOLMES!”

The envelope fell to the desk as he focused his attention on the source of the commotion - Lady Smallwood, who stormed into his office. “Why don’t you answer your damn phone?!?”

Suddenly realizing she had an unwelcome audience, she turned and hissed at Anthea, “Get out.” Anthea shot Mycroft a concerned look, and he nodded reassuringly. Quickly and quietly, she walked out the door, which slammed behind her, cutting off the emerging rant.

* * *

It was nearly an hour later when Lady Smallwood finally stormed out of Mycroft’s office, seemingly just as angry as she was when she went in. Anthea poked her head into his office, half expecting him to be chewed to the bone, instead finding him standing at the window. “Do you need anything for your meeting with Mrs McCurdy, sir?”

“Perhaps a large glass of brandy,” he replied with a tired laugh. 

Anthea smiled sympathetically, helping him to gather up paperwork. “At least you get to go home afterward. Then you can have as much brandy as you want… or need,” she winked. 

“Indeed, and I plan to.” Setting the stack of paperwork in his briefcase, he closed it with a definitive snap. 

* * *

At the end of the day, he was tired, frazzled, and desperately in need of a cup of tea. Or something stronger. 

Closing the door to his flat, he hung his coat neatly in the hall, his umbrella going to its customary place in the corner stand. Dropping his briefcase by his desk in the study, he went to his bedroom, neatly hanging his suit in the wardrobe and changing into more casual clothing. In stocking feet, he headed to the kitchen to prepare a light meal – Greg always scolded him for his lack of regular meals, so he put in the effort, for his husband’s sake.

 _Husband_. Just the word gave him a happy chill. _Greg is my husband_. He touched his forearm, absently running his fingers along the faint handwriting there. The tattoo was an excellent idea, he admitted – a permanent reminder of their love that was barely visible to anyone who didn’t know about it. Perhaps someday, rings would be a better choice but for now, this was better.

Their relationship had always been a closely-held secret. Obviously, his brother and John knew (Sherlock deduced it in the first week and was mortified), and Anthea had a fair idea, but to his knowledge, no one at NSY knew who he was aside from Sherlock’s elder brother. Of course, no one knew about their recent trip to the registrar’s office. He and Greg had agreed to tell Sherlock and John tomorrow over dinner. Oddly, he was looking forward to his brother’s reaction – hoping it was a happy one. 

Having finished a cup of soup and a bit of salad, he got to his feet and cleaned up the kitchen – the worst part of cooking, in his opinion – and went to his study. He had a great deal of reading to do before his 9am committee meeting tomorrow and starting later than he’d anticipated meant he would be at it until at least midnight, to do it properly. With a sigh, he poured a generous glass of brandy, opened his briefcase and pulled out several files, settling in for a long night.

* * *

A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was just past 8pm, so he set down the document he had been working through and got to his feet, giving his eyes a much-needed break. He was about to refill his glass when he spied a flash of color amidst the files on his desk. He looked closer, pulling the sliver of lavender out of the stack. 

An envelope. _THE_ envelope! His heart jumped. Lady Smallwood’s tantrum had distracted him, and the card from Greg ended up getting swept into his briefcase.

A smile playing on his lips, he took the envelope and sat down on the sofa, carefully sliding his fingertip under the flap to break the seal, then pulling the ivory card out. The smile faded quickly as he read the block lettering within:

_Goldhawk Road station, 8:50pm._

_Come alone._

_Tell no one._

_Your husband’s life depends on it._

He looked over the card carefully, re-reading it. Alarm bells were going off in his head. He looked at the clock on the wall again in a panic. _Approximately 38 minutes._

His drink now forgotten, he paced the study, attempting to formulate a plan. _I am certainly being watched,_ he thought to himself. 

_I have no time to assemble a team, especially not covertly._ He looked around the study, knowing that his security was such that this room could not be monitored by an outside party, but a simple breaking of a window could gain someone access to it for a moment. _But I can leave a message… one that would not be easily found._

With silent movements, he sat at his desk and opened the upper right drawer. Opening the back of his mobile phone, he removed the battery from it and neatly folded the card into the empty space, replacing the backplate and placing the disabled phone into the front of the drawer. 

Though it had been years since he’d done any field work, the old habits were still there under the surface. He rose and walked down the hallway, stopping by the kitchen to discard the phone’s battery and case in the bin before heading to his bedroom to change into more appropriate clothing. Jeans should provide him with the mobility he might need, and a light jumper with some warmth, negating the need for a heavy jacket. Good boots – the ones he bought for the hiking trip he took with Gregory several months ago. He reached for the locked box in his bedside cabinet and paused. _The Walther is probably a bad idea_ , he thought, opting instead to slip a small knife into his boot - not ideal, but better than nothing. His wristwatch – a gift from when he retired from field work – could also prove useful.

 _Time to leave,_ he stopped to look himself over in the mirror. He fervently hoped to look like an average Londoner walking the street at this hour. 

Mentally, he planned out his route, noting where the various surveillance cameras might be, and knowing which ones might be under maintenance. Anthea also had that information, and hopefully, would use it to his advantage.

At 8:25pm, he stepped out of his front door, locking it behind him, and headed toward the assigned location, hoping beyond hope that Gregory was safe.

* * *

A dark-colored compact car pulled up just as Mycroft checked his watch yet again, trying to quell his panic. The driver, a young man who couldn’t have been more than 25, stepped out and walked toward him. 

“Mr Holmes,” the man nodded politely. A silent cock of his head asked the question, and Mycroft raised his arms cautiously, letting the blond search him.

“Where’s your phone?”

“At home. I did not wish to be tracked. You did say I was to come alone…”

The man held up his hands. “Not me, mate.” He stepped to the car and opened the rear door. “Her.”

A middle-aged woman with fiery red hair looked at him from inside the vehicle. “Good evening, Mr Holmes. Or is it Holmes-Lestrade now?” she smiled, her voice dripping with honey, yet her expression venomous. “Please get in.”

Mycroft regarded her silently, not moving. 

“Really, would you rather ride in the back seat with me, or in the boot? At least I’m offering you a choice…”

Another moment’s thought, deductions flashing through his mind, and Mycroft shrugged, sliding into the back seat beside his captor.

“There’s a good boy, then,” she patted his knee. “Let’s go,” she called to the young man, who closed the back door and returned to the driver’s seat.

“Where is he?”

“You’ll be seeing him soon enough." She smiled that sickly sweet smile again and a piece of soft fabric was placed in his hand. "Be a dear now and cover your eyes. No cheating.” Seeing his hesitation, her voice turned cold. “You really won’t like it if I have to blind – I mean, blindfold – you.”

Almost robotically, Mycroft obeyed, tying the fabric securely over his closed eyes, then sitting back against the seat, allowing the pressure to ground him as the engine started and the car began to move.


End file.
